Imagine That
by Andrea Weiling
Summary: He's learned there was such a thing as adulthood, but before that came teenage days, and even before that came blood and family and Gokudera.  8059, complete.
1. Twist

Title: Imagine That (Part 1)

Author: anza

Characters/Pairings: 8059, Tsuna, Squalo and the rest of Varia, Basil

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyou Hitman Reborn! It's impossible for me to make money off of this anyway.

Comments and notes: Thanks to fangses for the support, and may this badfic be a toast to all the betterfics out there. I originally thought this wouldn't have pr0nish elements, but eh, I changed my mind later. Will be three parts, and very 8059 in the end, so no like, no read, yes? I apologize for any and all grammar/vocab mistakes incurred and brain cells fried, though no compensation will be forthcoming from this poor college student's pocket.

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It pools and eddies, welling up where fresh cuts have been made, sticky against his fingers where old cuts have been. Something clanks from above his head, and in one sick instant he knows what's going to happen: a bucket of water will pour over his head. A bucket of half-water, half-vinegar.

It stings like hell against his cuts - and there are many of them, what would Tsuna say if he could see him now? - stings so bad he has to bite back the hoarse gasp that belies his pain. Two thoughts are swimming along lazily in his head, hovering just over his shackled hands. His arms are sore, but of a numbing sort, the kind that after seven hours of hanging in the air from them, has ceased to be a red-hot, newly inflicted pain.

He snatches at those two thoughts, lights a match to them mentally, and lets them burn like his Vongola flame.

The first: _I really want to play baseball right now._

The second: _Tsuna will come for me._

The first begins to garble. It adds on little tags like _after I get out of this fucking shithole_ and _after I beat up the bastard who did this to me_, but the core of it remains intact. That's because he likes baseball, likes the feel of a perfect swing and not-so-much the smell of sweat but the feeling that he'd beat his record again, even if they hadn't won. He liked when he first stepped onto the field, and looked out at all the colors of the world, at the vibrant green and brown patches on the field, at the reddish dirt of the diamond and the mound. Sometimes at the faces he knew would be sitting above, at their faces, their excited and happy faces.

He lets that collective memory - _their smiles warm him, they warm him to the deepest shadow of his soul_ - sink into his beaten limbs. He doesn't dare lift his head; he can feel the brittleness of one shoulder and he's afraid that if he moves it it'll give that ominous, sickening crack like a groan of thunder or the snap of a whip. If he points his toes like a ballerina, he can barely brush the floor. It doesn't offer any relief from the crisscross cuts. He must look like the coupes in a stick of French bread, the flesh and muscle opening up to blood, more blood.

-----------

_He watches Gokudera's back, not because the other wants him to, or needs him to, or even because he's tired of watching Tsuna's. He watches because he's interested._

_Gokudera's stocky, but not in a way that says he won't grow taller and out of that in the future. His back is strong - when does he exercise? Under his shirt there is the faintest impression of abs, of strength - and when he really looks he can see the graceful ripple of humanity in that back. He doesn't know what it is, but he gets the feeling that it shoulders a lot, that it is strong from trials in the past, something unreplicable by bluster or pride._

_Gokudera is Italian. He and Tsuna are playing a game called 'Mafia', a game that involves all the friends around them and sometimes almost gets them killed. The connections made themselves at home in his head a long time ago, but when it comes up in real life, something in his still wants to deny it. Vehemently spits the facts back out after he's digested them already._

_But the strength in Gokudera's back hints at something more than just pointless shooting or a child's pretend-game. It hints, too, in his eyes, in his lashing rage against Yamamoto. It says "There has been good in my life too, despite it all"._

_He smiles at Tsuna. Snarls at him. The hate goes deeper than he thinks, no matter how much he looks after his back. No matter...anything. The challenge is there, and the gauntlet is thrown, but he doesn't want to fight Gokudera, he wants the words to come out right. He wants to say, "I'm not after what you're after, I don't want to be Tsuna's right hand man or whatever."_

_But it always comes out wrong, even in his head, because it's a lie._

_-----------_

_When he first met Tsuna he thought he was short but interesting in a boring sort of way. That sentence contradicted itself, and he knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to find another phrase to describe that. The way it was was fine, because Tsuna was an ordinary person surrounded by extraordinary people. That was all._

_Before he'd even realized it he'd counted himself into those weird people. He had eyes that could slow time down, reflexes that had served him in a pinch. And he could see sometimes, Tsuna was afraid when his eyes went sharp and flat all at once (he'd seen his father's eyes do that once, and he'd inherited the bulk of his personality from no one else), when he wanted something, and wanted it bad. Usually it didn't come out unless Tsuna was around, in danger of being hurt, though to what extent, he was still trying to block out._

_It only happened when Tsuna was around. When he knocked aside obstacles for him - "my friend", he wants to say, but whenever he looks at the hesitant approval in Tsuna's eyes he wants to say "my boss" instead - something welled up in him, something that told him that with Tsuna, he could never go wrong, and that somehow, his needs would be satisfied if he just followed quietly._

_He had a lot of needs as a teenage boy. He wanted to move around, he wanted action to stir and poke at the adrenaline in his system until it roared, he wanted a goal to work towards even if it was short-term, he wanted a friend that would depend on him. He wanted to be depended upon. Not so much dependent._

_But he supposed, that if anything, he was dependent on being depended upon. And no one had ever depended on him more than Tsuna. When things were bad with Varia, there was that barely-desperate look that made his insides curl with cold anticipation, the smile reaching no farther than his eyes._

_It was dependency that gave him the edge to his sword. And not even Gokudera could say it was a blunted, imperfect blade._

----------

He's become lost in memories of baseball and Tsuna and Gokudera, of the kids running around and the ball smacking into the glove of his hand back-and-forth, anything to dull the edges of pain that sprinkle around his vision. Little white spots of static all around. When his toes touch the ground, they smear. The older blood has already dried, he can see it, his head is still craned down. If he became more lost in memories about Tsuna and the others, he might find a way to think his way out of the situation, it lends him a kind of thoughtfulness. But there haven't been situations quite like this before.

The vinegar stings under his fingernails. Seeing his blood bubble on his chest was a sight he finds fascinating even when he's hurt so badly. If he licks below his lips he can feel a cut on his chin. That one is still bleeding, and it won't stop. He wonders what they'll say, what Gokudera will say, when he tells them he got it by not being careful.

He's retained so many injuries from Tsuna - 10th, he reminds himself, and the voice in his head sounds like Gokudera's - not from the man himself but from the enemies they've faced together, that he wonders why he doesn't quit now and have a good life. He knows that's not possible, though, not after Tsuna looks like him at that, and Gokudera...

...though he'd be killed on the spot if he said it to him, Gokudera still didn't have enough ability to protect the 10th all the time. It was easier as it was, bodyguarding split between two people. But he couldn't trust Gokudera to protect him; Gokudera still failed, sometimes. Would bounce back stronger, perhaps, after learning from his mistakes. He would never say it, but he stuck around because Gokudera couldn't take the position he so coveted. And Yamamoto couldn't say if he wouldn't want it for himself when the time came. Tsuna...

---------

_Tsuna just broke it to him so easily. "Be careful," he said one day, "they're real dynamite, you know. Fireworks make less bang and more sparks."_

_He laughed so easily at that, could laugh it off like he always did, but then Tsuna looked at him so seriously he faltered, and he wondered if that was so, how many times had he been in danger? Every day? With a walking bomb with a twitchy, faulty switch trudging next to him?_

_Tsuna continued, the serious look in his eyes. He found himself counting the normal things that he could depend on even when Tsuna wasn't around. "I'm not just Sawada Tsunayoshi, Yamamoto-kun." The same lamppost. "I'm actually the 10th head of the Vongola Family, a mafia family from Sicily." The same lazy cat sitting on the fence. "And you're one of my Guardians, the Guardian of Rain, kinda like a bodyguard or a counselor, you know." The same housewife sweeping her front porch. All normal. All the same. Only Tsuna was different today, only Tsuna was...something more than he looked today._

_Oh, but he looked so normal. Just a little more serious, his eyes a little rounder. His hands still clenched, twisting nervously in front of him, just like he usually did when he was nervous. His uniform still sagged where his shoulders weren't wide enough to fill the seams, his pants too floppy to accommodate his skinny legs. This normal-looking boy, this timid thing that he'd been protecting for lack of another goal, for the sake of his adrenaline needs, for the sake of friendship - was this all a joke?_

_His mind pounded against him, denied it howling for three frightening heartbeats - and then it all sank in, slow like ice in the snow, the sinking weight of responsibility on his shoulders._

_He wanted to ask, What do you want me to do?, like a good little peon would. And then he wanted to ask, How could you do this to me?_

_"I'll see you tomorrow at school," he said, and turned around to walk in the opposite direction._

_---------_

_The rest of the story he knew. He knew that Gokudera came up to him and yelled a lot of things at him that were supposed to be read as 'meaning well', but instead came out with spitting spiteful things like You TRAITOR, until finally he couldn't stand it anymore. It'd been lit like one of the fuses on Gokudera's sticks of dynamite, and it'd been lit and put out until it was just a short little thing. So he knew, and he knew Gokudera knew, it wasn't a surprise when Gokudera screaming things at him turned into a fight. A real fight, with fists and dynamite was falling everywhere, along with the clatter of a lighter Yamamoto kicked away with unerring accuracy, because he was so angry, he could feel it bubbling inside of him. More than a drive for success, for victory, for triumph._

_Bloodlust._

_He slammed his fist into Gokudera's head and it made a smack! that was sick and twistedly satisfying. It whispered, This is it, this is what you'll be hearing and seeing for the rest of your life. He'd forgotten it was Gokudera, the same one he slung his arm over those stiff shoulders, poked and prodded and watched watch Tsuna, the same one that had the strong back that could hold up the sky if he tried. All there was was the crack as he gripped that silver hair - stupid mafia, he hated it, he hated it for taking away his life, he hated that he couldn't say no, and never would, not as long as Tsuna was still alive - and took that head and brought it down and down again, until Gokudera wasn't fighting anymore. His fists were tight with Yamamoto's shirt, and his face was bloody from his nosebleed. He registered it numbly before he smashed his fist again into that face - he hated, he hated -_

_"Please, please," Gokudera sobbed, and he'd never seen another boy cry like this before, not even when they lost the game and walked home in defeat, "please don't tell the 10th, don't tell him I lost."_

_He said a lot of other things too, like He needs you, When he needs someone he reaches out for you, never for me, I'd be his right hand man if I wasn't so weak, I hate you, How could you take so easily what I've wanted for my entire life?_

_Even without him here, Tsuna was a ghost of guilt standing behind him. He had more questions that he wanted to ask, How did you decide? and Is pride all you can think about?, but instead of saying anything he just stared at the boy with his bloody nose, someone who was so like him, someone who had pledged his life, someone whose life had been changed past recognition by the mafia, someone whose dreams had been taken away from him. He'd taken it without thinking, without looking, because he was just one of Tsuna's friends, and he'd been trying so hard to tell himself it didn't matter who was whose best friend, who needed who. Gokudera was just a teenage boy like him after all, Italian or mafia or whatever, who wanted someone to depend on him. Alike. Similar._

_Akin, like family._

_He took his shirt sleeve and roughly wiped at Gokudera's face, and wished he knew how to say sorry without pissing the other off. "I won't tell Tsuna," he said instead._


	2. Rolling Rain

Title: Imagine This, Chapter 2: Rolling Rain

Author: anza

Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyou Hitman Reborn! And I couldn't sell this piece of crap if I tried.

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As if on cue the door to the prison opens. He's turned away from the light, but he can see the shadow of the person behind him, with long hair and a sword in one hand. "Ooooiiii," Squalo taunts, "what have we here?" The rest is all a blur, the sighing relief as his feet touch ground and his chains are broken, the pain in his arms that can't be lowered because he's been hanging from them for so long. In a moment of narrow-eyed thoughtfulness, Squalo says it's a miracle they aren't broken. They both know a swordsman's life is in his limbs, it's something they share with grudging reluctance on Squalo's part. They shuffle out as the building just as the factories go up in explosion, one by one. The 'fireworks' are nothing like Gokudera's, who after Varia, learned to color and produce his own so the family could see them whenever they wanted to. The fiery burst of smoke and collapsing buildings reminds him of other times, of more trying times than the summer festivals, the girls in yukatas, chocolate bananas, Gokudera basking in the light of praise from Tsuna...

"You smell like shit," Squalo says suddenly, and with a wrinkle of his nose.

_Thank you_, he answers automatically in his head. "Where's Tsuna?," he asks, out of force of old habit. He knows if he's not here already, he'll be here soon.

Squalo doesn't answer for a moment. "Not here, and won't be for a couple of days." And the others slide into view, Marmon and Bel without a smile on his face though his coat has blood splattered on it, Lussuria resting his back against a tree and Basil who does a quick bow and hustles a First Aid kit out of nowhere. Yamamoto puts his arms down slowly, painfully, with Basil's help as the others watch, their eyes following different things. Only Squalo's are on him as they all take a breather.

"Look, alright," Squalo begins roughly, as is his way, "we weren't following the 10th orders to storm the place. We just knew you were in there and had to get you out. So," and Basil gives the Varia a sharp look, "we'd appreciate if you'd made it clear we saved you rather than you wandered out in the explosion -"

"That's enough," Basil cuts in. "He's injured." Lines are drawn faster than swords, faster than Yamamoto can see.

_I'm right here_, Yamamoto wants to say, along with _You know Tsuna's not that kind of person, he'll just be thankful you guys hauled me out of there._ He doesn't say, and tries not to think, of anything to do with bloodlust or mental stability, because the Varia are family too, just grudgingly so.

"I'll give him your regards," he says, and wonders when he got so good at diplomacy.

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_He didn't know why, but it always stuck with him, the feel of Gokudera's face under his fist, the satisfying sound of his hurt being assuaged even as his temper built up to even higher levels. He wondered if it was just Gokudera, and he couldn't see himself attacking another family member - not Tsuna, not Hibari, not Ryohei. And he knew they were family members now, bound by more than blood, because blood could only take you so far, sympathy and heart did the rest._

_He tried to say sorry in his head, but he realized soon enough there was no way for it to sound completely cheesy and unsimpering. He wasn't sorry, maybe there had been some other reasons he blew up like that, but at the core of it, it was because they wanted the same thing. No victor had been decided, though they'd had the fight. He'd simply recognized that it had been wrong to explode with anger like that when he did, and that though they both had it coming, Gokudera didn't really expect or deserve a full-out fistfight just because he was feeling vindicative._

_They'd settle it some other way._

_It had been strange to think that it was also one of the most vulnerable, intimate moments in his life. He couldn't remember becoming so angry at anyone before. He wondered if that was just a special talent Gokudera had been fostering, with his scowling face and defensive attitude. And there was something about it, fighting, that brought the soul out into the open, for victory or loss. But then again, it hadn't been for nothing. It had been for something, he just didn't know what._

_Soon after he began to daydream, and night-dream about being a mafioso. He wondered if Gokudera had these kinds of dreams, where there were little kids who screamed as he killed their parents emotionlessly. Or if he faced down an enemy, and left him behind strapped to a bomb that would detonate as soon as he was far away enough. Or breakdowns that would occur, as he imagined himself half-crazed with the blood on his hands, on the spectral smiles he thought he fought for. He wondered if Gokudera had these dreams, or if his resolve to be Tsuna's confidante and counselor-in-one was truly as steel-solid as it seemed._

_It itched at him, that kind of mindless trust, though Tsuna inspired it. Thinking wasn't condoned, though, especially when he lay on his bed and thought traitorous thoughts. Just like Gokudera had said._

_He dreamed of being Lanchia-san too, except when he opened his eyes there were the broken bodies of his family members there. He imagined the smooth curve of his sword, casually slipping between ribs, then upwards to the heart. Flesh didn't cut so easily, but in his dreams it did, it gave way to steel and muscle and bone, to empty eyes and blood all over. His sword would look like liquid silver in the light; he'd wipe it off on the body of one of the girls, and when he looked up at the staircase of a grand house he'd never seen before there would be Gokudera, with his bombs. They would have practiced a hundred times, a thousand times against each other, so he'd know a trick or too, and when the blade slid home he wondered if he'd feel that same sick satisfaction of a job finished, a job well done._

_Gokudera would beg, he saw that too, would beg him to not kill Tsuna, would tell him that was the last thing before he could be forgiven. But he'd just set the other down gently to the floor, blood trickling from one corner of the mouth. "Please, please," he'd beg. "Listen to me. Don't you remember? Don't do this. Don't do this. Listen to me." It would fall on deaf ears; he wouldn't be himself, he wouldn't be the Yamamoto they all knew and loved._

_He imagined looking into those dying eyes and seeing the reflection of himself, with an emotionless face and no words to speak of, a broken person who only recognized his need to be free from whatever or whoever gave him pain. Because he was human, after all, and he was afraid of it just like everyone else, no matter how fearlessly he stood in front of Tsuna and smiled._

---------

_He tried it just once, took Gokudera and slammed him into the wall with both hands and felt that rush of something like power surge from his head down to his toes. "What the fuck are you doing?," the other had snarled, and knocked his hands away, but he didn't want it to end there, he wasn't sure how it wanted it to end, but that wasn't it._

_So he grabbed the back of Gokudera's shirt and did it again, pulled him back against the wall and tried to keep him there while he tried to figure out what exactly was the purpose of all this. Of course, it satisfied a need somewhere inside of him. A power trip? Perhaps. But it felt like more, what was it they said about teenage boys?_

_He thought he hadn't been thinking about it, but he had been, in secret little corners of his brain when he wasn't looking. It would come up when the sun glinted off of Gokudera's head when he was in the yard and Yamamoto was up above, watching his back as usual. He'd think, Silver sure is a strange color. And then he'd remember the feel of it in his hands, silky and fragile and not like Gokudera at all, why did he keep his hair long when it just gave enemies a handhold? But he and Tsuna were still separate entities, he didn't do everything to Tsuna yet.  
_

_He'd remember it when the other scowled and raged and when his dynamite went off on the other side in that distinctive Boom! of noise that had people's heads perk up interestedly, as if by sound alone they could determine what had happened. Only Yamamoto knew, and he felt lonely in those times, even as something in him reached out and took hold of his memories of Gokudera, their similarities and their situation. He still hadn't asked about the dreams, about killing family members and forgetting who he was, about power trips. He didn't talk much with Gokudera these days, after all, everything was said with eyes or with Tsuna like a Great Wall between them._

_The fight had widened the gulf between them in some ways and shortened it in others. Finally, now that he knew it wasn't a power trip and he didn't really want to kill his family because he'd never forget their smiles, and if he did he'd tell Gokudera to kill him, finally he knew what slamming Gokudera in the wall made him want._

_That was it. It made him want._

_This is more dangerous than the mafia, he thought, and laughed at his own joke as he leaned down and tried it._

_Gokudera was all edges and no softness except for his hair and now his lips. He'd learned something new that day, something about his family, something about Gokudera. The other froze, then began to struggle and flail like hell. But Yamamoto had height and strength on him, and he was insistent. Finally the other broke free, coughing from lack of air. Yamamoto had watched him breathe, back heaving, remembering all the things that had brought him here, wondering where this would take him._

_"You fucker!," Gokudera had spat, but he was blushing, and he looked cute even with the world's unfriendliest scowl. "What was that all about?" And then he turned tail and ran._

_Something rose up, something like bloodlust but without the blood and not quite with the lust. Yamamoto wanted, and he hoped Tsuna wouldn't begrudge him a little curiosity-sating._

-----------

"Are you alright now?" They sit a little ways into the forest for a while, out of sight while the authorities swarmed the burned-out husk of the factory. He never got to kill the bastard who strung him up like a doll and poured vinegar on his open wounds after all.

"Just thinking." His arms are even more sore now that they are down, it feels as if he'll never be able to swing anything again, not a bat or a sword or anything. His borrowed clothes are baggy because whoever owned them before was larger and taller than he was. Squalo comes back with a canteen of clean water and a hard look at him as if to say, _You'd better keep your promises_, and leaves without a word. Basil looks relieved, but guardedly so, as if Tsuna would disapprove. He thinks to Tsuna, and thinks that the 10th would.

Now they are waiting for reinforcements, whenever they come. Basil is quiet, staring at the sky. They still hold clouds of black smoke from the fire, shielding the stars at some parts and revealing them at others. He stares too, for lack of anything to do, and remembers fireworks and good times with a not-quite smile. A song about returning home plays in his head, along with disjointed memories. In some of his old imaginings he doesn't return home, but this time, he fully expects he will.

He twists the ring on his finger - he'd lost the chain, but gotten the ring back when they escaped, he tried to ignore the way Squalo looked at it, long and longingly - back and forth, then around in a circle. It fits his fourth finger perfectly, like a wedding ring, except on his right hand. Now when he swings his bat or his sword, he sees it glint and his eyes follow it. On it rests responsibilities he never thought he'd have. On it rests memories he'll swears he'll never forget.

"I'm alright," he replies absently to no question at all.

---------

_He didn't realize he'd picked up not a stray cat or a casual lover. What he had picked up was a habit._

_It wasn't a habit of throwing Gokudera against walls, or kissing Gokudera, or anything physical. It was thinking about it, thinking about the things after kissing, things like "where we could do it" and "where it would be dangerous" and "how we'd do it". It had become a 'we' before he realized it, because love and sex and tango all took two people, even if one wasn't willing. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation or sappy little things like looking into each other's eyes (because when he looked in Gokudera's eyes what he saw was himself, a little surprised but otherwise still whole), that wasn't what he wanted._

_What he wanted was what he dreamed of, of the hard feel of the desk under him and Gokudera squirming in his lap, half-fighting, half-cursing. He imagined the planes of skin and stomach under his hands, white with a shirt tan where the mouth of the shirt made a V-shape a little past the clavicle. And he could hear the breathy little gasps and curses, insults not-so-much snarled anymore as whispered like prayers in the dying light from the school windows. Harsh, desperate pleas to a God that might or might not exist, in a language he'd never learned but dropped naturally from Gokudera's mouth, the little intonations running up and down like a scale. He imagined the moment where there was nothing between his hand and skin, he imagined the wetness and how Gokudera would bury his face into the crook of his neck to stifle his cry, he imagined leaning down and pressing his lips gently to that pale forehead. He could see arguments and fights and blushes but more than anything, he saw their lives undeniably intertwined for the rest of their lives._

_Like the most illuminating and illusionary paintbrush, he remembered things like the strength in Gokudera's punches, the desperate fade of his childhood dreams, of future days holding a gun instead of a baseball bat. He wasn't looking forward to the talk that would come, inevitably, because they were going to be together for a long time after. Tsuna would make it happen._

_There would be staring into Gokudera's eyes and seeing himself. He wondered if he would smile when he saw it, like an inside joke that not even he understood. He wanted it, he wanted it sometimes so hard with a blood-pounding passion, other times with the slow burn of a lit fuse. Waiting, waiting._

----------

_And then there was the day when he cornered Gokudera in the classroom, locked it behind him. He took long strides - he was taller still, though Gokudera would grow up and fill out those shoulders, those shoulders that could carry the world if only Tsuna smiled in approval - and met the other where he stood, shocked, and grabbed what he could, held what he could. All at once there came the stinging scent of pepper and ash, and under it all was something warmer and more volatile than even dynamite, something like lava that bubbled up and couldn't be controlled. He remembered he likened it to coming home, because his imagination had supplied what to do but not the things that had be felt for real. It all fit together, the need and the want and Gokudera's body against his, struggling, squirming, looking for an escape._

_Those hands fisted again his shirt again, but this time Gokudera was ready, Gokudera pushed him back and closed his shirt with closed eyes and a defeated expression. "Stop," he said, but Yamamoto was gentle, he held him up with his hands and didn't do anything, because he'd waited and dreamed and waited and dreamed some more, and it had been a while since the last time he'd found Gokudera wasn't hard and pointy all over, and he could wait a little longer. "Why are you doing this?" He could see himself reflected in those green eyes, and somehow that made him calm, because he had imagined that too._

_"Don't you want it?," he asked, low and why was his voice so husky. He saw something like lust dilate Gokudera's features for a second, then blink away in the next moment. Gokudera shook his head, side to side, bangs moving in time to the movement. It felt like the fight had been won, and he wondered if it was something stupid like sacrifice that had taken all the powder and explosion out of Gokudera. It would be easy, so easy to shove him against the wall and take and take, but that wasn't a need. It all went back to what he needed, and he needed someone to depend on him._

_He wanted Gokudera to depend on him. For this._

_"It'll be only yours," he continued. He licked his lips, "It'll be only yours, and no one else will have it. It'll be something not even Tsuna has."_

_And when he said that, Gokudera looked at him like he was crazy, Something that Tsuna doesn't have? But Tsuna has everything! And then it sank in slowly, and he knew he'd guessed right, that all teenage boys had this need, not just to fuck but it had to do with pride and friendship and family. Like a balance that had to be equal on both sides, a tangled string straightened. He was offering his body and his monogamy along with satisfaction and intimacy, because it always seemed to him Gokudera hadn't been touched enough, and that when he shied away it was because he was afraid of it._

_He was afraid of this too, but more excited, because he'd never done it before. Never given and gotten the same gift._

_And he found he liked it, finally able to reach out and take Gokudera's hip and fit it to his, his thumb brushing over the sharp jut of the pelvis. He liked the smell of Gokudera's shampoo and the sensation of long hair against his face, and the way Gokudera muffled his cry into the junction of his neck, the hot feel of a foreign hand cupping his, the wet and warm skin that didn't belong to him. He liked the new things too like the look in his face that said Please, please without saying a word. In fact, he more than liked it, he just didn't have a word for more than like, not when his mind was on other things._

_"Fuck you," Gokudera spat afterwards, and he always thought it was odd there were tears in his eyes even though Yamamoto hadn't punched him._


	3. In the Present Future

Title: Imagine That, Chapter 3: In the Present-Future

Author: anza

Disclaimer: I do not own Hitman Reborn. Nor will I pay for brain damage incurred while reading this story.

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_

_He'd never had illusions about things before, never daydreamed about anything before, never night-dreamed and woke up in a sweat and the sheets all warm and tangled around him before. It was a new sensation too, that when he closed his eyes he could still see the dream in his head, now a combination of what he knew and what he imagined would happen, his mind diving deep to all those little habits they had (he'd press his lips to that forehead thoughtfully, going it over in his head as if he was reviewing it for a test later), skimming over the parts he didn't know (it was just a blur of redness and dulled, unreal pain, as if he was seeing a ball a split second before it hit his face). He thought about it the next day when he met Gokudera in the bathroom - their mouths came together like storm waves against rocks, he could see it in his mind - and thought of more tender thing, like possibly doing it on a bed instead of a desk sometime soon._

_"Why do you care?," Gokudera had snarled. "It doesn't matter where you do it, as long as you get your kicks."_

_"You're in this too," Yamamoto reminded him. He thought to himself, It's not 'you', it's 'we', and don't you remember we both agreed to this? "Bianchi's always at Tsuna's, so -"_

_"No." And Gokudera's voice grated like saw against steel, his eyes like pieces of jade flint, sharp and flat all at once. "That place is - it's mine."_

_So most of the time they did it at school, in locker rooms after everyone had gone to lunch or practice, in already-cleaned classrooms after the cleanup crew had left, behind trees and bushes and staircases. People walked by, but Gokudera bit down on his shoulder and drew blood sometimes, and then afterwards he'd pull out a bandage and cover it up. Once, he wondered vaguely if it was a sin, if he was really going to go to Hell for it, but then he'd remember it wasn't a game that they were playing, it was a deal that had been struck, a marriage that would last them as long as their Rings and the Vongola name. They had pledged they'd be the 'other' in fights and blood and comfort, in suffering and joy and he hated to think it, but maybe even past Tsuna. It was more than love or family or friendship - it was the core that made them human, made them need, made them burn._

_The feel of linoleum floors and desks and the hard classroom chairs, the melting smell of disinfectant and ammonia in the bathrooms, the shuffle and muted clatter of brooms and dustpans in the dark as they moved into position, all dancers in a ragtag jig in the pitch dark, they all became familiar to him, as familiar as the first time he'd reached out and held Gokudera to the wall and seeing a mirror to his own shocked face on someone else. It was like he had fallen into a natural progression of things, to live a happy childhood and then become a mafioso, kill people and dream about killing them. And touching Gokudera, because it made the wound bleed clean for a little while._

_Just once they did it at Yamamoto's house, upstairs from the sushi restaurant. It looked very normal - they weren't friends but they weren't enemies either, and Tsuna was their bestest mutual friend, he just wasn't there at the moment. And his house was close to the school, so it was a given he'd invite Gokudera over to help him with his homework, because baseball took up an awful lot of time, and he never had any brains left for class. It would all be perfect, if Tsuna didn't look back and forth between the two of them, eyes helpless to stop what must have looked like an airplane running on fumes. An explosion waiting to happen. One of Belphegor's wires, strung lovingly around a doll's porcelain neck._

_He would always remember was the one who caved first, though he didn't want to show Gokudera into his room, with its tacky baseball posters everywhere and a heavy steel bat against the wall. He remembered how Gokudera scanned the shelves with those green-glass eyes and picked out grade school textbooks, baseball magazines, comic books. He remembered how they sat down at the table, without a word, and worked for half an hour until the sliding door shut behind his dad as he went out to get more materials during afternoon break._

_It wasn't, and he told himself it wasn't, because he was afraid Gokudera would laugh or snarl, because the peace was tenuous at best, and Gokudera now knew he could, he could push Yamamoto over the edge._

_It was strange because instead of the desk tilting precariously forwards or backwards, there was only softness and warmth under his knees, softness and warmth under his hands. There they were, the dips and valleys he'd mapped before, but never like this, never all of it at once. And his hand riffled through that hair, as if he'd forgotten something there, and the rush built up like a raincloud, the pattering sound of downpour in his ears. Gokudera's mouth made him dizzy and high, made him shut his eyes as he struggled to remember the most simple and normal things, like how to count to ten and that he was part of the Vongola family. He clasped their hands together and prayed it wouldn't end, in that stuttery language that was so unlike the smooth syllables that dropped so sweetly from Gokudera's lips, curses turned beautiful. He remembered whispering, softly so the neighbors wouldn't hear, remembered resting his head on that shoulder and shivering, breathing at last._

_He wondered how he looked to Gokudera, if he looked as perfect in that moment as Gokudera did to him._

_There was a dazed feel of Something Has Changed between the two of them. It was an added burden on his heart, and he massaged it for a moment as Gokudera packed his books and murmured without looking at him, "I'll let myself out." He stopped at the door and Yamamoto thought felt something swirl in his stomach when he saw those shaking fingers rake through that shining hair._

_"See you tomorrow," he echoed softly as the door closed._

------------

_Though he knew he'd change his name to 'Vongola' someday, he continued playing baseball. That was because Tsuna had come up to him the next day and added a lot of "But you don't need to do anything now!"s and "Don't give up baseball, I'll be sad if you do!"s, and a whole lot of other things that summed up to something like "I'm sorry I ruined your life" and "I really didn't mean to - it all kind of happened" and at the end, there was something like "You can still back out, if you want", said so softly and slowly he knew it'd taken all of Tsuna's courage - and the boy had a lot, he really did - to whisper it the way he did._

_He'd put his arm over the other then, and looked left to right to see that only Gokudera was watching, and said, "I'll stay." Tsuna's face lit up then, like a lightbulb hooked up to a star, all radiance and no shadow. Gokudera only looked mildly pissed then, and when Yamamoto passed him on the way back to his desk, he only grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and hunched down, camel-like. If he could have called it anything at that moment, he would have said it was an "Acceptance of Rivalry"._

_It made him grin just thinking about it._

_He still found it a little odd, though, when he found Gokudera waiting at the fence next to the lockers after he changed. The sun had set long ago, so why was he here when he should be at home or with Tsuna? Frilly girl-illusions passed his mind flinchingly, complete with dazzling sparkles and heartfelt admissions of love; he could have laughed, if it wasn't so strange already. The other didn't look up as he approached, but when he stepped into that zone - he knew where it was now, knew exactly where he shouldn't step, knew what line constituted 'private space', and did all Italians have a private bubble of 'farther than it should be'? - Gokudera's head came up, and they glanced at each other, then away again._

_"What are you doing here?," he asked, genuinely curious, falling into step easily as if they'd done it since they were three. That was a thought: if he'd known Gokudera as a child, then his unmarred childhood would belong to him too._

_Gokudera was quiet, and he wondered why he wasn't dreaming or imagining anything. "Why do you stay with Tsuna?," he asked finally._

_He shrugged. "He's interesting. Weak, and strong. He needs me, just...," he could never stay angry when he thought of Tsuna, he was always a ghost watching from behind him even if wasn't actually there, he gave a little sigh and a reluctant smile, "...I just didn't realize it'd be a rest-of-my-life thing when I started hanging out with him."_

_Gokudera gave him a glare that somehow softened to a discomforting sort of grudging admiration. "Naive," he snorted, and ducked his head down as if he were embarrassed by Yamamoto's words. Maybe it was because he felt the same, he thought._

_But not as naive as you, he wanted to say. You've been born into this, but when you actually become one, the moment you realize it - will you be as calm as you are now? Will you try to escape, even for that split second where you feel like running away from Tsuna, running and running and never looking back?_

_Instead of saying something, he reached out and gripped Gokudera's arm hard, roughly like he never did anymore when he gathered all Gokudera against the corner of the room and smelled him in every nook and hollow, tasted him in every drifting, wandering loop of his tongue. And Gokudera faced him and he realized it really was something new, something never done before, the way they depended on each other. There was no convenient pigeonhole stereotype for them to fit into, no precendent at all. It was more than just physical, it was something deeper; the reasons were complicated, but the exchange was simple. They weren't in love, they weren't in lust - they were just taking it out on each other, clashing together in a tangle of hands and teeth and feeling, with a tenderness that could only come from being a strange set of brothers-in-arms._

_Humans needed to give and needed to take, and this deal, this exchange, that was just it, wasn't it? It was giving something and taking it, having a piece of someone to hang onto when you didn't want to be yourself._

_"I'll never leave Tsuna," he said lowly, fiercely._

_Gokudera didn't look surprised or shocked, didn't look like anything. He wondered why he was imagining things now, the scent he followed like a bloodhound, the feel of muted warmth under his hand. A fire he burned with, burned for. No matter what his future was, he would always remember Gokudera as the first, inseparable from the responsibilities of the Vongola name. There were things that held them oceans apart, things like the ghost of Tsuna and the ring on his finger and their ongoing rivalry for the title of right-hand man - humans were so inconstant, they couldn't feel strong emotions for long periods of time - but sometimes, just sometimes he felt so close to Gokudera he thought he might die. The little piece of the other that was in him beat so strongly he mistook it for his heart when they were this close, with no distance between them at all._

------------

_Gokudera walked normally when he felt like it, back straight and facing forward for once, instead of skulking with his hands in his pockets like Yamamoto remembered. That old-time gangster pose that made the girls swoon and him wonder if there wasn't more to that tough-guy character than met the eye, if there was actually a glass-brittle soul-flame inside. A cigarette dangled from that mouth - he'd never gotten out of that habit, not even now, and it was one of the only addictions Gokudera allowed himself - and they walked closer than he remembered more, their shirtsleeves just brushing against each other, the almost-warmth of almost-touching. That back, it started it all, didn't it? It stood straight under that dark lapelled-jacket, just the slightest hint of wingbones on either side of the seam that followed the spine from neck to hem. He knew the strength of those shoulders himself, he'd felt them against his in a fight, knew the feeling when Gokudera was about to throw, knew the feeling when Gokudera was about to let go. He thought a very strange thought in that moment, and it was If I had never seen that back, I would have never consented to be a Vongola._

_"What?," Gokudera asked, his tone caustic, a storm eating away at the fringes. He still got irritated at him for looking, though he'd looked so many times. Seen himself in those eyes, unwittingly growing into the hitman he would be. They were green, unlike any other person he'd ever seen, a real green that shifted colors when he was angry or happy or sad, because Gokudera wasn't like him when it came to feelings, he always exploded quickly and efficiently, never leaving a stray line of powder anywhere._

_"Tsuna can't send anyone else." Tsuna had said just that. He had replied It would be an honor. "Some of the Varia are still in the hospital from the last one." I'd do it even if it wasn't a favor, Tsuna. "So I'm going." Please let me do this. Gokudera isn't ready yet. He isn't ready yet, please, please let me take that burden from him while I still can._

_The look in Gokudera's eyes suddenly showed genuine surprise and alarm - and then there came the part that confused him, because instead of softening to Tsuna's wishes like he always did, Gokudera's eyes went flint-sharp like the only did when they were angry or cornered, desperately seeking help from him, searching him inside and out for a funny joke, a lopsided smile. Why did that happen? Certainly it wasn't like that, wasn't as if he wouldn't come back -_

_"Don't worry," he said automatically, and knew it was the wrong thing to say._

_Gokudera just gave a wordless snarl and that slouch was back, those hands in those pockets, and this was another one of things Gokudera had never grown out of, his slouch and his temper and his inability to make his thoughts known. He was worried, worried like he would be worried if their spots were switched, in that not-showing-it way that boys had, the way he thought the two of them were stupid sometimes. "I just -," he saw the other query for the right words, helpless through a maze of vocabulary and languages and the things that stood between them (Tsuna and the rings and the Vongola name, their own childish dreams and unrealistic future, the imitation of love-that-wasn't-quite, the drawn-back unsaid words that trembled on the tip of their tongues, words of caring and tenderness that never dropped, not even in the dead of the night or the darkness of the sports shed), search for the right path that wouldn't make any fuses light up, and find nothing. Instead, the frustration was infinitely clearer and dearer to him, because he knew what Gokudera was thinking even if he didn't say it, he could see it in his face. It hadn't been long, but then again, they were too alike sometimes._

_Their sleeves brushed, and then fingers caught the white edge of it, stained with holes where tiny live ashes had fallen after an explosion. His eyes were keen, and for a moment he imagined giving in, imagined a happy life again. "Don't go," came the whisper, harsh in the twilight, the razor-chords hanging low in his ears, disbelieving but real, real words._

_He thought he had it figured out. He thought they were brothers-in-arms, reluctant rivals, sidekicks to the main story. Two sides of the same coin, made of the same material just from different places, different minds. He thought he knew it all, a give and take, no strings attached, a whole thousand million one-night-stand songs that sang out in chorus in his head all at once. Cliches about neverlasting love, warnings of love founded on strife, the mortality rate of mafia hitmen. He even thought he knew Gokudera, because he could guess what was going on in that head sometimes, yet other times - maybe he hadn't been thinking hard enough, or feeling hard enough, because Gokudera surpassed in him that now._

_They had planned to meet again tomorrow, in the baseball shed with its cushioned mats, the smell of leather and grass stinging his nose until he pressed it into Gokudera's hair and forgot about everything Before and concentrated on Now. They were going to hold hands, and he was going to pretend they were anything but the add-ons that trailed behind them like unwanted strays, even for five minutes. Gokudera had risen out of a fog of Vongola and rings and Tsuna and inescapable fate, inevitable destiny, and never let him lose himself, if only he would keep a little piece of Gokudera - the one that looked at him so heartbreakingly, so sweetly sometimes, the real Gokudera whose heart was still human - deep inside his chest, a preserved crystal enveloped in his soul._

_Gokudera made him bend, made him bend back so far he thought he might just take his ring and throw it into the ocean where it would be lost and forgotten. It made his purpose - Tsuna, the Vongola family, his needs, his wants - disappear for a split second, so fast he wondered if he imagined it, but when he reached inside, he knew it had one of his dreams, one of his bad ones, one of his deadliest fantasies. He wanted to deny it, wanted to deny that anything could make his resolve waver, hadn't he thought once that Gokudera's will was steel-solid? It was because the ring was a chain bound his life to Tsuna, it reminded him of what he had to do, who he would become, to walk forward unwaveringly._

_But his bonds to Gokudera, they didn't exist anywhere except for in his mind and in his heart. Tempered and solid through time and strife. A bond...unnameable, inutterable._

_He knew the word now, the word that was further than 'like'. He was just afraid to say it out loud, because it might destroy everything, even if it sang true as his sword._

_"I'll be back on Thursday," he murmured, and pressed his nose against the palm of Gokudera's hand. Gokudera looked furious, but he made it quick. He might not be able to do this anymore, after Gokudera had his growth spurt, it was strange to think he might grow taller than him, but time passed, didn't it? - and kissed that forehead, like he had the first time, and every time. Like lovers, because though he couldn't say the word out loud, they were. It ached and rankled in his heart, it buoyed him and gave him a reason to return, because they were._

-----------

Basil tucks him into the passenger seat of the truck sent back with the reinforcements, and then drives on without a word. He dreams about the After, the sequel on Thursday, when Gokudera looked at him and didn't say anything. He had been forgiven, he knows that much, but then again he knows Tsuna is always forgiven. It had only been the first time, and Gokudera had so many firelines and not enough firebreaks, and whole areas where the grass and all vegetation has been burned away. It will be like this for a long time, one waiting for the other, waiting for the fuse to fizzle and die out, or for the whole thing to come crashing down, a good thing lost in the distant past. The purpose of it now - and the definition of 'we' had changed over time, hadn't it? - was to give enough so that even if one died (he can say that now, because he has killed and almost been killed, and every time he looks into Gokudera's eyes he's afraid he'll see that broken-down version of him that just wants the throbbing pain in his chest to stop), the other would keep on going because of what had been given to him so selflessly, walking past the cracked milestones of kills and deaths, crumbling monuments of celebrations and hopeless hospital visits, towards whatever came until they, too, would be struck down.

The truck jolts and juts once in a while, but it isn't until it comes to a complete stop that he wakes, still half-asleep, just in time to see Basil slip out of the driver's seat, weapon in hand. Instantly the sleep snaps away and all senses come online and alert, and he looks left, right, he's done this before, and opens the passenger door quietly - his arms ache and complain, and red-hot fire lances up and down like a crazy piano player that stabs at his instrument with little needles and knives, until he thinks he might pass out from the pain. His sword is still steady, though, just the slightest waver as he steps to the ground, his shoes making as little noise as he can, his breathing quiet enough for him to hear anything, feel anyone that approached.

The waiting is the worst, always. Especially when Gokudera comes back and he wonders if Gokudera is afraid too, of the person he sees reflected back at him.

And he's missed the first millisecond, he feels it like the razor-sharp kiss of death against his neck, the loving caress of a knife. i Intruder/i , his senses scream, and he swings his sword wearily, so much slower, would he make it in time -

- but then there is something pushing against his chest, the weight of a person that knows his moves and has dodged the first attack like he always does, and the smell is so familiar that he relaxes. He wonders if Gokudera knows that no one else in the world smells like he does, with cigarettes and lava under the skin, the feel of long hair against his face. He wonders what he smells like - does he smell like the crisp scent of rain on grass, the silhouette of steel under it all? "There you are - there you are -," Gokudera murmurs, and his hair is tucked under a dark cap, he can feel the brim of it digging into his chest like a duck's bill, and it makes every muscle in him loosen, thinking about these absurd things. The pain in his arms takes a backseat to the feel of familiar hips, strong shoulders under his bandaged fingers. "It's just me, just me," Gokudera repeats as if to convince himself, and the words smooth his frazzled nerves, the drumming of tension in his ears.

"Gokudera," he says, feeling the name roll of his tongue so easily. He feels as if he's been in a time capsule for the last few hours, reliving everything that's has ever touched him, and realized once again that it all came down to one thing, one emotion that four letters just couldn't contain, couldn't possibly describe, nor could be shared with anyone else. They all had their own definitions for it. And he knew his, had rediscovered it, and he knew the worth of it was nothing that could be put into measure, not in time or money or lives - suddenly he wanted to say it so badly, all the discoveries he'd found, all the memories he'd reviewed, bursting out of his chest like fireworks.

He feels the words build up in him, Gokudera's strength and their similarities and the whole humanity of 'we', the give and the take and the like-not-like and the relationship without a name, the piece of him inside Gokudera that beats alongside his heart. And he takes it all, and because Gokudera has taught him more than anyone else about it, that little word that didn't give the feeling justice at all (he wants to tell him first) and leans down like lovers should, and whispers it in the shell of one ear, because it is a secret between them that they can't even touch the bottom of. Something in him beats wildly with fear and joy and need when he says it, because this is his secret, this is his definition, and he wants to live so badly because it is his truth now.

Gokudera looks up for a second, straight at him, surprised at the words but not at all displeased. The light is just enough to see his own reflection in that green - he looks like shit, he thinks to himself, but at least he can see the future too, because he is the future now, and it is not at all what he imagined it would be.

------------

A/N: Should I write a companion piece to this from Gokudera's point of view? That's the idea that's swimming around my head right now - there'd be different in-between parts for all the main events, I have some new ones planned out that I never got to put in here...should I do it? And don't you think though this one is only 4 parts, it's the longest out of the three chapters?

Personally I still think this story sucked. I got better at pacing, but I still don't have the knack of not-using similes and still getting all the flowery little bits in there (yeah, they annoy me too, but that's the way my plotbunny swings). But all in all, there are still some scenes I didn't find a place for that I want to write so badly...


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